Sunday, Oct. 24, 2010
“When I think of the universe of or above growing”
When I think of the universe of or above growing
things for a moment not growing, goldenrod in waves,
and see your glowing in that moment of decrease
increasing, I think that every fuck, look, without
produce grafts us to those roots that shiver, out and in
of being by way of being for the seasons the sign,
the incomplete, ongoing, indiscrete successions
of seedless intercut preserving.
How we loved outside
the false inner light of the birch, seen from inside
Blue Mound State Park, above the false blue zoas
of the gulch, flow hidden by the Military Ridge
through a hole in a pipe-telescope that turned away us.
The fee for being there went uncollected. To be flora,
at the intersection, where the actors are how variously
the trees gesture in the darkness, of sign and character.
Richard Meier is the author of Terrain Vague, selected by Toma%u017E Šalamun for the Verse Prize in 2000 and published by Verse Press (now available from Wave Books) and Shelley Gave Jane a Guitar, published by Wave Books in 2006. His poems have appeared in Conjunctions, letterbox, 1913: A Journal of Forms, and others. He is writer-in-residence at Carthage College in Kenosha, WI.